Woman Chased by Crows by Marc Strange Page B

sense of
order
is demanded??” Lyman’s face was disappearing in a spreading puddle of coffee. “Who the hell does he think . . . ?”
    â€œChief?” Dorrie’s voice on the intercom was soothing. “Sam Abrams on one, Mayor Bricknell on two.”
    â€œI’ll talk to the Mayor first. Tell Sam I’ll get back to him.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œAnd I spilled my coffee.”
    â€œYes sir.”
    â€œMayor Bricknell. And what can I do for you on this fine sunny morning?”
    â€œI take it you haven’t seen the paper yet.”
    â€œWhy of course I have. In fact I’m using it to wipe off my desk blotter as we speak.” Orwell stood aside as Dorrie bustled in and attended to the ruined newspaper and the spilled coffee. “Takes a good picture, doesn’t he?”
    â€œI trust you’ll have a statement for tomorrow’s edition.”
    â€œI’m not at all sure a statement from me is in order.”
    â€œYou can’t be serious, Chief Brennan. The man as much as accused you of incompetence.”
    â€œReally? I’ll have to read it more carefully.” He bent over and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. “It sounded to me like more of a comment on the state of society as a whole. Damn!” There were only three shortbread cookies in the carefully folded bag. Orwell was certain there had been five when he left work the previous day. “I’m going to put a mousetrap in here,” he muttered.
    â€œI’m sure a statement will be much more effective,” said Donna Lee.
    â€œWill the Mayor’s office be issuing one?”
    â€œI’ll be making my own campaign speeches over the next month. I’ll deal with it then.”
    â€œSo you agree it’s a campaign issue?” Orwell sat back down. His desk blotter was clear, a fresh coffee was waiting. “Dorrie, would you care for a shortbread?”
    â€œNo thanks, Chief. Want another newspaper?”
    â€œI’ve seen it,” he said. “Thank you. My apologies, Mayor. You caught me in the middle of my morning’s clutter.”
    â€œI think you should seriously consider issuing a statement,” Donna Lee said. “Something to the effect that Dockerty is one of the safest, most well-ordered communities of its size in the province.”
    â€œNow
that
would be a splendid fact to mention in
your
speeches, Your Honour.”
    Orwell bid the Mayor a polite good morning and took a deep breath. He arranged two of the three remaining shortbread beside the coffee cup and put away the bag, not as neatly folded, in a different drawer.
    â€œChief?”
    â€œDorrie?”
    â€œMr. Abrams?”
    â€œDid I get a call from Detective Moen?”
    â€œWere you expecting one, Chief?”
    â€œI’ve been expecting one for a week.”
    â€œShe only left town yesterday, Chief.”
    â€œSeems longer. See if you can track her down for me, would you?”
    â€œForthwith, Chief.”
    â€œDefinitely. Forthwith. And Dorrie?”
    â€œStill here, Chief.”
    â€œI need to talk to Detective Lackawana’s . . .”
    â€œLacsamana.”
    â€œLord! Why can’t I remember his name?”
    â€œYou didn’t like him.”
    â€œNo I didn’t, you’re right, that’s probably it. Nonetheless and even so, I need his boss, whoever he is. And find Adele Moen.
And
Lacka-whatever.”
    â€œLacsamana,” she said gently.
    â€œFine. Good. Find me someone to talk to.”
    â€œRight Chief.”
    Orwell dipped a shortbread into his coffee. A mousetrap, he thought. Must remember to bring one. “First get Sam for me would you please?”
    â€œHe’s waiting on two.”
    â€œOh. Fine. Hi, Sam? You want some response to what Mr. Lyman said last night, is that right?”
    â€œIf you’d care to make one, Chief.”
    â€œYou can say that
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the